The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2)

by Janacek, Craig

  Gregson had the good sense to look abashed. “Counting myself and Mr. Winthrop, it would make fourteen, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Well, had the object been to obscure every trace of the thieves’ footprints, you hardly could have acted with greater rashness. Pray tell why precisely you pitched such caution to the winds?”

  “It was on behalf of the note, Mr. Holmes.”

  “On behalf of the what?” asked Holmes, with a start.

  “I am very sorry, Mr. Holmes, I should have mentioned earlier. But you hardly gave us time during the cab ride with all your questions.”

  “It was at six o’clock this morning, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Mr. Winthrop, “that my butler brought into my chambers an urgent telegram. I tore it opened, and was not sure whether I should laugh or cry when I read the words.”

  “Which said?” asked Holmes, his brow bearing the telltale signs that he was growing ever more impatient.

  “I can show you,” said Gregson, holding out the telegram, which had clearly been impounded for evidence.

  It was addressed to Mr. Winthrop, and ran thus:

  “Sir: I thank you for the withdrawal ongoing – JONATHON WILD.”

  “As far as I can reckon, Mr. Holmes, Wild is a pseudonym,” said the inspector.

  “Yes, thank you, Gregson, I was aware of that,” said Holmes, dryly. “Even if the real Mr. Wild had not been hanged from the Tyburn Tree almost two hundred years ago, it would be a rare criminal who would inform the bank governor of his true name. So what did you do when you received this unusual note, Mr. Winthrop?”

  “I immediately telephoned Scotland Yard, where I was put in touch with Inspector Gregson.”

  Gregson nodded. “And I gathered up a dozen of my best constables and rushed over here. Things were quiet as a church upstairs, and the two men down in the corridor here also reported nothing amiss. Governor Winthrop and Mr. Bennett swiftly opened the gate and the door and we all rushed into the room. But there was no one there. Just the empty spaces where the boxes once sat. You see, Mr. Holmes, the telegram used the word ‘ongoing,’ which made me think that we might still catch them in the act.”

  Holmes snorted derisively. “I admit that it is a strange turn of phrase, but how would the man possibly have sent a telegram if he and his companions were still in the vault?”

  “So you think it was a gang?” I asked.

  “Of course, Watson. One man does not move four and a half tons of gold by himself. I would estimate that it would take eight men at least six hours to perform such a herculean feat.”

  “Do you think it was a foreign agent? Someone trying to destabilize the nation?”

  “Good, Watson, very good. Your theory holds together. This would explain both why they only took the gold, and the strange phrasing of the telegram. But on the other hand, this is not their normal modus operandi. I have crossed paths with many of these agents in my time, some of whom are now out of commission, and while the remaining men would like nothing more than to see this plan carried out and the resulting political fallout, none of them has the intellectual audacity to plan such an attack. No, I fear we must consider other adversaries. Gregson, have you already obtained a warrant to see the counterfoil to the telegram?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes, we should have it momentarily.”

  “Very good, then your morning has not been a complete catastrophe. Since the floor of the vault is a lost cause, let us enter.”

  Holmes spent the following twenty minutes engaged in a careful inspection of every nook and cranny of the vault. He even tapped his cane upon each of the flagstones to ensure that they were solidly mortared. He repeated the procedure along the four walls, which resounded with metallic thuds.

  “Lead-lined, I assume?” asked Holmes of the governor, who responded affirmatively. “Excellent. Well,” said he when his examination was complete, “I concur with your assessment, Inspector. The walls and floor seem solid. By the presence of the step ladder, I can deduce that your men have already checked the ceiling for any ingress, though even the bare eye at this distance makes it plain that they did not enter from that direction. In fact, I see no obvious method at all by which a gang of thieves could have made their way into this vault.”

  “Are you saying that it is impossible, Mr. Holmes?” cried the Bank Governor.

  “Not at all. I am merely commending Inspector Gregson on his thorough inspection. But I have high hopes. Now, then, let us have a look at these deposit boxes.”

  Gregson and Mr. Winthrop stared at Mr. Holmes as if he had gone mad. “But, Mr. Holmes, the deposit boxes were not touched during the robbery!” protested the inspector.

  “That is precisely why they are of such great interest. Why, pray tell, would my simulacrum so greatly desire to gain access to this vault that he would run the very grave risk of posing as me? I fear that I am no longer unknown, thanks in no small part to my Boswell here. Mr. Wild, as we shall call him, could easily have encountered someone who was acquainted with me during this visit.”

  “I admit that it is a mystery, Mr. Holmes. I suppose, if he were a cracksman, it might be so that he would have time to obtain some moldings of the locks.”

  “Now, now, Gregson,” said Holmes admonishingly. “I highly doubt that Mr. Bennett here allows anyone, no matter how highly placed, to remain alone in this vault for long. There is not sufficient time to obtain an adequate molding. And we have already established that the deposit boxes were unmolested. No, I think the answer lies in the box belonging to myself. Let us have it opened, Mr. Winthrop.”

  “Mr. Holmes, we can hardly do so,” he protested.

  “And pray tell why not?” asked Holmes, acerbically. “In the absence of the owner’s key, the Governor and the Manager may use their master keys to open any box. This is your failsafe in the event of a lost key, is it not?”

  “But Mr. Holmes, in such a case, the box can only be opened in the presence of the owner. To do otherwise would be a major violation of British banking laws. In the event of an owner being deceased, we could obtain an order from a magistrate to open for his heir. Perhaps we should so inquire…”

  “That will hardly be necessary, Mr. Winthrop. The owner is here.”

  “What!?” the man exclaimed.

  “Did you not say that the box is registered to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.? I am he. Or so, two trusted men, Dr. Watson and Inspector Gregson, can readily attest.”

  There was a calm assurance of power in Holmes’ manner which could not be withstood. Gregson paused for a moment, and then chortled at this legalese twisting of words. “He’s right, Governor Winthrop. Let’s have it open.”

  “Very well,” said Winthrop, with obvious misgivings. He motioned reluctantly to his manager to help. The pair inserted their keys into the Chubb’s lock, swung open the door, and pulled out the box. We gathered round with considerable interest to see what was contained within. To our great surprise, it held only a stainless steel brandy flask, inscribed with the initials ‘S.H.’

  §

  I glanced over at Holmes, whose face bore the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess. He carefully picked up the flask and examined it with interest. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the vapors that emanated from within. His eyes flashed, and I could see from Holmes’ rigid appearance that he was vibrating with inward excitement.

  He handed the flask first to me, where I noted no apparent scent at all. I passed it to Gregson who, by the puzzled look upon his face, plainly also failed to discern what had so animated Holmes. Meanwhile, Holmes had turned to once more scrutinize the room. He walked about for a moment, every aspect of the room minutely examined and duly pondered. Without warning he dropped to the floor with an alacrity lacking in most men of five and fifty years. He crawled about for a few minutes, and then rose with a hint of triumph in his eyes. “Here you are, Gregson, mark these. They are of great importance. I think this should be the final clue that you need,” said Holmes, han
ding the inspector several grains of dust that had been carefully scooped onto one of his calling cards.

  Gregson stared in baffled amazement at these specks. “Dust? I am afraid I miss the point, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Truly? I think it is quite evident now exactly what has transpired. These are deep waters, Mr. Winthrop, deep and rather dirty. I see that the vault is currently lit with the incandescent bulbs of Swan and Edison. Do you keep them turned on when the vault is closed for the night?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Holmes,” he protested. “What would be the purpose? It would be a terrible expenditure for the sake of nothing, for not even a mouse can enter this vault at night.”

  “Ah, but someone did, Mr. Winthrop, someone did. I deduce from the Governor’s testimony, Inspector Gregson, that it was dark when you and your men entered the vault?”

  “Naturally, Holmes. We brought lanterns, of course.”

  “Of course, well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. I would invite your attention very particularly to them. One is that little mound of what you referred to as dust, Gregson. The second is the curious smell inside the flask.”

  “But the flask has no smell,” protested the inspector.

  “That was the curious smell,” remarked Holmes in his typically inscrutable fashion.

  “Mr. Holmes!” cried the agitated Mr. Winthrop. “I cannot bear the suspense! If you know how the thieves entered the room, please tell us!”

  Holmes’ eyes were bright and his cheeks tinged. “When I set foot in this vault, I put myself in the man’s place and having first gauged his intelligence, I attempted to imagine how I should have proceeded under the same circumstances.”

  “How can you be certain of his intelligence, Holmes?” I inquired.

  “Come now, Watson. In the supposed Mr. Wild, we have a man with the brains to rob the most secure room in all of England, and the audacity to impersonate me. Surely this is a remarkable individual. Dangerous, yes, but surely remarkable. His intelligence is clearly second to none. As I was saying, burglary has always been an alternative profession had I cared to adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have risen to the top.” He paused and turned to the bank manager. “Ah, Mr. Bennett, could I trouble you for a glass of water? I find that my throat gets a bit dusty down here.” The manager looked startled at such a trivial request in the midst of an exposition that touched upon a theft of such gravity, but he scurried off to do as Holmes’ commanded.

  Holmes watched him go, and then returned to his explanation. “As I surveyed the room, I learned that there was no method by which the thieves could have entered either from above or from the sides. But the floor is another matter entirely. This would not be the first time I have seen a man tunnel into the floor of a bank vault.”

  “Mr. Holmes!” protested Gregson. “Have you gone mad? These flagstones are cemented in place!”

  “Indeed they are, Inspector,” said Holmes, with his enigmatical smile. “And I expect they have been so for many years. Ah, thank you, Mr. Bennett,” said he to the swiftly returning manager, who handed Holmes his requested glass of water. My friend took the smallest sip, and then returned to his account. “Have you ever had any reason to replace one of the flagstones, Mr. Winthrop?”

  “Not that I can recall,” the man spluttered. “But, really, Mr. Holmes, how could a gang possibly pass through a base of cemented flagstones? They would have to be insubstantial!”

  Holmes did not answer for a moment. He walked slowly and thoughtfully among the crates and around the room until he stopped. So absorbed was he in his thoughts, that the hand carrying the glass had carelessly spilled some of the water along behind him. “No, Mr. Winthrop, they would simply have to move one of the stones and replace it afterwards. Like this one, for example.”

  He pointed down at his feet. As we stared at the small puddle of water, we realized that most of the decades-old join-lines between the flagstones absorbed the water readily. But at the spot indicated, the water refused to be absorbed, which could only denote that the cement was freshly poured.

  §

  After some initial consternation, Gregson summoned several study constables armed with chisels, mallets, and pry-bars. They made short work of the cement indicated by Holmes’ water-spilling expedient. Within moments, the large and heavy flagstone was lifted off to one side. A black hole yawned beneath, into which we all peered, while Holmes, kneeling at the side, leaned down into it with one of the constables’ lanterns. A finely carved shaft, complete with steel ladder, lay open to us. At the moment, however, we had no thought for how the tunnel had been mined, for our eyes were riveted upon the bottom of the shaft, where we could see the unmistakable reflection of rippling water.

  “Gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I present to you the Walbrook River.”

  “But that’s impossible,” stammered Winthrop, his face turning a ghastly color of green.

  “No, sir, merely improbable. Did you not know that the sewers of London ran directly under your bank?”

  “The sewers?” said Winthrop, weakly.

  “Indeed, sir. You see below you a glimpse into our distant past, like some parting of the veils of time. It was around this very stream that the Romans built this place. They built a temple or two in this garrison town on the far edge of their empire. But they also built a wall, and it was that which gave the brook below us its name. Many centuries later, foul and rank with the rubbish and waste of the City’s teeming population, it was one of the first of London’s rivers to be vaulted over and buried far beneath our streets. And now, like the Fleet, the Tyburn, and many others, it forms part of the sewer system created in response to the Great Stink of a half-century ago.”

  “I cannot believe it,” mumbled Winthrop. “All this time, a river under my bank!”

  “But how could you have suspected the existence of such a tunnel, Holmes?” I inquired.

  Holmes smiled broadly and his eyes shone from underneath his black brows. He was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the introspective logician of Baker Street or the quietly retired bee-keeper of the South Downs would have failed to recognize him. “I simply had to apply my maxim again, Watson. If they did not come through the door, the walls, or the ceiling, then they must have come through the floor.”

  “But how did you know it was this stone in particular, Holmes?”

  “The scratches, of course, Watson.”

  I looked about in confusion. “But all of the flagstones are scratched, Holmes! It must be expected when moving around such heavy crates.”

  He shook his head. “But not like these specific abrasions, Watson,” he pointed to the adjoining flagstone. “These are fresh, without time to fill in with the typical dust that permeates rooms such as this. The cuts on this particular stone must have been made very recently, when a particularly cumbersome item was moved on top of it. Such as the adjoining stone that we have just dislodged.”

  “You deduced all of this from a set of fresh scratches?” said I, wonderingly.

  “Not at all, Watson. It was equally likely that the scratches had been made while the crates were removed. But I knew that one of the stones must have been recently replaced, for that was the only possible explanation for the presence of what Inspector Gregson referred to as dust, but was actually a quick-drying Portland cement. And the flask of water confirmed it.”

  “Water!”

  “Oh yes, Watson. Why else would there be a spirit flask with no scent? The residuals of any other alcohol would have been evident. The water was used to cure the cement.”

  “But the cement!” protested Gregson. “How could it have been replaced from below?”

  “It couldn’t be. It was set from above,” said Holmes simply.

  “That’s impossible!” spluttered Mr. Winthrop. “A man would have had to remain behind in the vault.”

  “That is exactly what I suspect happened. Why else do you think that you received that peculiar note fro
m the so-called Mr. Wild?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gregson.

  “It was intended to raise an alarm. Mr. Wild did not wish for you to calmly open the vault as your normal morning routine, for he would surely have been discovered standing within. Rather, he wished for a small regiment of constables to rush blindly into the darkened room, so that one additional man, also dressed in a false constable’s uniform, could easily blend in and then safely sidle away.”

  Gregson shook his head violently. “Impossible. No man has such a cool hand, to lock themselves in the main vault of the Bank of England and wait for the arrival of the police. It would be foolhardy to the point of madness.”

  “And yet, Inspector, I believe that is exactly what happened. It is the only plausible theory that fits the facts.”

  “But Holmes, it would have taken a man of exceptional strength standing in that shaft to hold this heavy flagstone in place while the cement set,” I noted.

  “Yes, yes, but how does it advance us?” said he irritably, at the interruption to his narrative.

  “Well, it may be of capital importance. Anything which will define the features of the gang will help us towards the criminal.”

  He considered this for a moment. “Capital, Watson! I concur completely with your observation. At least one member of the gang is either a giant, or they have some deformity. For I have noted that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by remarkable strength in the others.”

  Meanwhile, Gregson shook off the torpor that had been induced by the stunning find of Holmes, and called out to his men. “Carson! Stevens! Get down in that shaft immediately. See if you can catch up to them.”

  The two constables looked somewhat reluctant to comply with these orders, and I could hardly blame them. It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. They appeared much relieved when Holmes countermanded the order. “Hold a minute, Inspector. You and your men entered the vault at, say seven o’clock this morning. At that time, the shaft was already sealed. It is now almost ten o’clock. Mr. Wild and his men have at least a three or even four-hour head-start. Any man clever enough to pull off this escapade will have carefully considered his exit route and ensured that they had sufficient time to escape. They will not be caught by sheer swiftness of feet.”